


you're in my clothes, skin, heart

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Come Marking, Getting Together, M/M, Scent Marking, Scenting, and peter is my favorite, the pack is oblivious, werewolf behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 22:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12177873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: He knows it's werewolf behavior, the scent-marking.But it's them, too.This? This isthem





	you're in my clothes, skin, heart

**Author's Note:**

> Full (spoilery) warnings at the end.

He’s a human in a world of werewolves, and he learns quickly that what is normal for humans isn’t always for the werewolves. And something that means everything to humans can mean nothing at all to werewolves.

It’s an adjustment, but he’s been making adjustments for years, and this isn’t such a hard one.

He actually likes it.

The casual touches--wolves are tactile creatures, and they reassure themselves with touch, a physical reminder that the pack is there, the pack is whole, and every time he is included in that, drawn in with an arm tossed round his shoulders, his hair ruffled in passing, even a touch on the elbow by Peter--it reminds him that they care about him, that he is important to the pack.

And he revels in that, in the press of other bodies against him, the casual affection and reminder that he isn’t drifting through the world alone.

He loves his father more than life itself, more even than the pack, but he’s not a tactile man, and he doesn’t reach out for Stiles often--and more often than not, when he does, Stiles pulls away, weighed down by lies and guilt and heavy bruises. It is lonely, until the pack slips in, slides into his life and fills up all the lonely spaces in him.

He learns that the casual nudity is part of life, a side effect of a pack of wolves who think a good time includes claws and wrestling in the forest.

He learns how to sleep, touched by five bodies, and held down by a two hundred pound weight.

He learns that some touches mean more than others, that he will almost always be greeted by skin brushing against his throat and cheeks, under his chin.

That who is touching him depends on where they touch.

Isaac tends to hook his chin over his shoulder, brushing against his cheek before he slides away. Erica rubs against his chest, claws braced against his hips. Boyd cups the back of his neck, a friendly squeeze before he retreats. Jackson _hugs_ him, which is never not going to be weird.

Scott--Scott has no boundaries, and clings to him like an overgrown, hyperactive puppy, like he always has.

Even being a werewolf can’t change his best friend.

Peter doesn’t scent mark him.

And for a long time, Derek doesn’t.

 

***

 

It's after Jennifer and the nogitsune that it changes. That he finds himself in Derek's space, the pack milling around him and Derek, watching from the outskirts of the group, eyes haunted in a way that is familiar to him now, and when the puppies fall away to the siren call of pizza and a mess of wings, elbowing and laughing until they're piled on and around the couch, he looks at the Alpha, almost challenging. Waiting, and Derek looks away.

Stiles is startled when he straightens from retrieving some Cokes, and finds Derek almost pressed up against him, his eyes bright and almost desperate as his gaze searches Stiles face.

He waits, patient in this when he is never patient and Derek huffs a breath, and catches him by the nape of the neck, pressing his forehead to the younger man’s as he inhales Stiles scent.

Stiles pats his arm and Derek hums a little before he steps back and pushes him toward his dinner.

 

***

 

It's not that they've ever talked about it. They never needed to, it was just a thing, the unspoken live wire between them. It wasn't that Stiles was human or that Derek was the alpha. It was just them, the push pull protective that marked everything they did and were.

This is new, Derek quietly scent marking him while the pack was distracted, pressing their foreheads together for a moment to reassure and ground and claim.

It's new and it's a wolf thing, he knows it's a wolf thing, but he learns to crave it, to want it after a fight and on the night while the moon hangs fat, when their pack sprawls around them, when they are sitting quiet and together while he researches.

It isn't much, it's a wolf thing it doesn't change them or matter.

But he can't help but think that this means something.

It makes him _his_ in this small way.

 

***

 

The pack doesn't notice.

Maybe because they never realized just how apart the alpha keeps himself. But they don't notice, when Derek starts touching him and maybe that is why it continues. Stolen moments when they were turned away, loud and oblivious and really, they were the _worst_ werewolves, and Derek cradled his neck and pressed him close.

 

***

 

He sees it, the way Derek's gaze goes pinched and wanting, while he is still wrapped up in the pack, when they are crashing from a hunt and he smells of blood and fear.

Then he mumbles excuses and ducks away, just enough that Derek can come to him.

His eyes are calmer after, when Stiles looks up from the puppy pile and finds the Alpha red gleaming at them.

 

***

 

He sits in the passenger seat, shivering in the cold and Derek strips off the sweater he’s wearing, handing it to Stiles silently.

It’s oversized and warm from Derek, and smells faintly of sweat and the Preserve and he snuggles into it, his muscles relaxing slowly wrapped up in Derek.

When he climbs out of the Camero after Isaac and Boyd relieve them on the stakeout, he stumbles on sleep heavy feet and he doesn’t think to return the sweater.

He sleeps in it, too deep, and wakes to Scott blaring on his horn, five minutes late for a pack meeting and he runs out like that, still wearing Derek’s sweater and scent.

 

***

 

Derek never asks for the sweater back. It ends up in Derek’s laundry enough that it always smells like the wolf, but Stiles wears it, and it gradually takes on a deeper complex scent.

 

***

 

When he comes over and the pack is scattered, busy with everything they do when they aren’t being the supernatural badasses of Beacon Hills, when it’s just him and Derek, he expects a difference, and he isn’t disappointed.

What startles him is that when they are alone, Derek doesn’t briefly mark him and move away. He draws Stiles close, presses his hands to the curl of his throat and their foreheads together and lingers there, in the younger man’s space, breathing him in while Stiles steadies himself on Derek’s hips and murmurs soothing nonsense.

Until they stumble to the couch and Derek draws him in, a sleepy cuddly puppy pressed against Stiles side as they watch a movie and Derek revels in the feel of pack.

 

***

 

It’s a wolf thing.

He knows that.

Knows it doesn't mean anything.

He can’t even tell, when they leave their scent on him, how it changes his own scent.

But he knows he loves it.

Especially Derek’s

 

***

 

“You,” Peter drawls, and he stills, giving the older man a cautious look. He does something then, something that makes Stiles gape at him, and Derek gives up a small snarl, from across the room.

He tucks himself under Stiles chin and inhales, presses his head and cheek into the boy’s throat, marking himself as much as he is marking Stiles.

Then he leans back and his eyes are laughing as he tips his head to the side and lowers his gaze, just a little.

“What the fuck,” Stiles says, helpless.

It earns a laugh from Peter and a huff of annoyance from Derek, and curious stare from the rest of the pack, and he flails away from Zombiewolf, tapping him on the nose with two fingers as he goes.

“Bad puppy,” he snarls, and Peter grins.

It’s a little confusing to find the wolf at his feet during the pack meeting, but Stiles doesn’t argue with him--he knows how useless it is.

 

***

 

The day isn’t unusual. The pack meets at Derek’s loft before school and he outlines the weaknesses of the brownies who have been lowkey trying to kill them all week.

After passing around iron and bags of salt and feeling decidedly useless, the pack troops out, arguing about class and practice and he ducks into Derek’s kitchen to steal a cup of coffee.

Derek keeps his favorite creamer and syrup in the pantry and he makes a loud noise of pleasure as he mixes it all together.

He can feel the alpha watching him, and it doesn't’ surprise him when hands slip to his waist, cradling him as Derek noses at the back of his neck, inhaling the fresh clean scent of him.

He feels something soft, softer than the stubble and he makes a low noise, all aching want, as he twists and tilts his head up and this isn’t what he expected, it’s soft and gentle, like the next step in a long dance, expected and familiar and natural. He whines into it and Derek shifts him, lifts him to sit on the counter and Stiles runs fingers through the wolf’s hair and kisses at his mouth like he’s sipping from it, delicate and small and teasing.

When he stumbles into school, thirty minutes late, he can taste Derek on his lips and he knows the wolf’s scent is all over him.

 

***

 

No one notices it, although Lydia says he looks happier, and Scott asks sometimes, why he smells so much like Derek.

He doesn’t tell them.

Derek gives him curious eyebrows and Stiles shrugs, presses their foreheads together and murmurs, “I don’t want to share this with them. Everything else--we do. But I want this for just us.”

 

***

 

“ _Stiles_.”

He pulls Derek down, tucking the alpha’s face into his throat and rolls his hips. It earns him a drawn out whine, and he pets through Derek’s hair, stroking the short strands at the base of his neck, rubbing in the sweat that gathers there.

Here, stripped down, just the two of them, Derek sweating as he fucks Stiles slow and deep, even Stiles can smell it.

The way they smell together.

He wonders what it’s like, for Derek. If he’s drowning in it.

He bites at Derek’s throat, the soft skin behind his ear and the wolf snarls, thrusts in hard and desperate and Stiles grins into his hair.

“You like it,” he whispers, “rolling around in my sweat. Like having me all over you.”

Derek whimpers and he laughs and fucks his hips up into a slow thrust. “Gonna come in me, baby? Fill me up so I smell like you? I’d like that,” his voice hitches when Derek rubs over his prostate and Derek howls, coming hard and hot in him, and Stiles gives a choked cry as he comes across his chest, across both their chests.

He isn’t surprised, when Derek sits up and rubs the come into his skin. When he pushes a little into Stiles’ tender hole, pushing it into the mess of come he left.

He isn’t surprised at all, when Derek dips down and inhales against his belly, and a blissed out smile slides over the werewolf’s face.

 

***

 

Derek almost throws him into the bathroom, and Stiles lets him. Stands patient and still as the irate man strips off the dirty clothes he’s wearing.

For all his fury he moves with careful precision, aware always of his claws and where he is touching Stiles.

He brushes knuckles and wrists against pale, mole speckled skin and Stiles breathes a soft sigh at the touches, arching into them.

Derek is careful in the shower, washing him with his soap and shampoo, hands gentle and thorough and never quite what he wants, but enough, enough that Stiles is panting and desperate, a whine in his throat that sounds like a wolf, even as Derek pins him to the wall by his hips and leans in, inhaling the clean scent of _Stiles._

The alpha didn’t hurt him.

He just covered him in another wolf’s scent and sent Stiles back to Derek, mouth red and swollen from kisses that still taste like ash .

“I’m sorry,” Stiles murmurs and Derek presses a kiss to his belly with just a hint of fangs.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he growls, and Stiles’s scent changes, shatters and Derek surges to his feet, and catches the boy in his arms, holding him close and singing soft shushing noises as Stiles noses at his neck and inhales.

It takes time.

But held there, wrapped in the scent of Derek and hot water, he eventually calms.

 

***

 

When he comes home from college, after months away and only phone calls and texts to connect them, Derek tackles him, rolls so Stiles lands on his chest as Derek buried his face in the curve of his throat.

He's making a high pitched whine and Stiles huffs a little and holds him close.

“You smell wrong,” Derek pouts and Stiles smoothes his fingers down, over the curl of Derek’s ears.

He presses a chaste kiss to Derek’s open hungry mouth, presses their foreheads together and murmurs, “Better fix it, huh, big guy.”

 

***

 

When they're like this, Stiles riding Derek, his head tipped back, his body one long stretch of skin marked with Derek's bruises and kisses and gripping fingers.

When Derek’s eyes shine feral and red and he snarls and fucks up hard into Stiles.

When he growls, “ _Mine.”_ and Stiles stutters his name, his voice and wit stripped away as he comes across Derek’s chest, his long fingers slipping in his come, smearing it into Derek’s skin as Derek moans and comes.

When there is nothing between them but want and love, Stiles thinks he can smell it, the thing that Derek can smell, that he tugs from every scent against his throat, that he layers in with every brush of his hand and lips and skin.

When Derek gathers him close and says, “I want us to smell like this, always.”

Stiles thinks, its a wolf thing. But it's them, too.

Stiles kisses him and presses their foreheads together. It's not a wolf thing. It's just Derek, just Stiles.

Just love, just them.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Stiles is kissed against his will by a rival alpha, off screen.  
> Peter also scent marks Stiles, without explicit permission--Stiles is mildly freaked out but not in a bad touch way.


End file.
